"Almost nobody dances sober, unless they are insane." -H.P. Lovecraft

61 days sober

I wake up with my face mashed against Travis’ chest and my morning wood digging into his hip. His heartbeat is a too-quick thrum beneath my ear; either he’s the world’s most anxious sleeper, or he’s awake already. The music is still playing on my computer. His phone vibrates on the bed next to his thigh, and he picks it up—so, awake, I guess. I don’t move, but I do sneak a glance upward to watch as he opens the text from Ben. I’m on my way to Lakewood now, have to be at work at one. Have you left Garen’s house yet? If not, I’m coming over and making breakfast for you guys. Sounds good, I watch Travis type. Haven’t left yet. G’s still asleep. His right arm is curled around my shoulders, his fingertips tracing gentle designs into my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut. This is why I wish I’d been the one to wake up first. If I had, I would’ve at least been smart enough to wriggle out of his grip and start my workout, or go shower off the dried cum that has glued my sweatpants to my skin. But no, not Travis. Travis, the beautiful idiot, is lying painfully still so that he won’t wake me up. So that he won’t disturb me. There is no part of the past twelve hours that has left me undisturbed. I roll over so that I’m sprawled out on top of him, with my face still buried against his bare chest and the lower half of my body nestled between his legs. He carefully retracts his arm from my shoulders and lets it fall limply to the bed beside him. “Guess you’re finally awake,” he says. Instead of responding, I shuffle up a few inches so that my cheek is pressed to his stuttering heart. His dick is half-hard against my stomach, and he must realize I can feel it, because he lets out an embarrassed little huff of a laugh and says, “Yeah, you can just… ignore that, please. Sorry.” How the fuck could he possibly expect me to ignore that, after last night? Still without making a sound or lifting my head to meet his eyes, I pull myself up onto my elbows so that I can crawl further up the length of his body and collapse on top of him again. I drag my nose over the skin just below his ear and breathe in that infuriating, intoxicating coconut-coffee-Travis scent. Under that, there’s still a tinge of last night all over him—beer, like maybe somebody spilled a drink on him at some point, and sweat from the dance floor, and cigarettes from being cooped up in the Benz with me while I chain-smoked the whole way back to Lakewood, and sex. He definitely smells like sex, too. I roll my hips down against his, and he’s more than half-hard now. He lets out a strangled sort of exhale and palms my waist. “Garen, we should—this isn’t—” “Can you just shut up and let me have this?” I grumble, slipping an arm tight around his neck. “God, just—a minute. Give me a minute—not even a minute. Give me thirty seconds, and then I’ll get off you—” or get you off, whichever you prefer, “—and be… awake, like a real boy. But right now, we’re going to pretend we’re both still sleeping, and when you’re asleep, Travis, you don’t talk.” “And when you’re asleep, you don’t grind your dick against me,” he grits out. Which is a fucking stupid thing to say, because this is only the second time I’ve ever shared a bed with him—for sleeping, that is—and I’m pretty sure this is exactly how it turned out last time, too. “You’re an eighteen-year-old guy, stop acting like you’ve never had a fucking boner before,” I snap. Any retort he’d planned dies in his throat when I catch his earlobe between my teeth and give it a tug that’s maybe rougher than necessary. I’m still pressing down against him, movements lazy and slow and torturously good. We’re not really lined up properly, but the friction is still nice. Not nice enough to get me off, but just… good, because it’s Travis’ hard-on that’s slotted against mine through too many layers of fabric. He’s gripping the sheets in his fists, the action only serving to draw the material taut over my ass. I’m probably imagining it, but it’s possible that he’s spreading his legs a little wider to accommodate my body. I wonder how many of my thirty seconds are left. And then he growls out, voice wild and too loud even over the music, “God, fuck this.” He grips the hem of my shirt and rucks it up under my arms, palming the planes of my back for just a few seconds before he shoves my hips back to get his hands between our bodies. The drawstring of his borrowed sweatpants is knotted too tightly for him to even get it open, and when I reach down with one hand to try to help, he knocks me away and just yanks until the string snaps and he can wriggle out of the pants. He flattens his hands to my chest and shoves me upright. “Shirt. Off,” he orders. It shouldn’t be so sexy that he’s being this aggressive and almost non-verbal. It shouldn’t turn me on, but it does, it makes me harder, it makes me want him even more, it makes me nervous. I strip off my shirt and fling it somewhere behind me—maybe towards my desk? His shaking hands are curled into semi-fists as he strokes them over my torso, knuckles dragging over the ridges of my abdomen. I hook my thumbs over the top of my sweatpants and pause. “Can I…?” “Obviously,” he says, looking so exasperated that I almost can’t hold back a laugh. But now is really not the time for a comedic interlude, so I just push them down until they get tangled around my knees and I have to brace a hand to the mattress to kick them the rest of the way off. The only bit of clothing left on either of us is the pair of boxers riding low on his hips, but I barely have time to acknowledge them before he’s shoving them down as far down as they can get with me still nestled between his thighs—not far at all, really, but far down enough that his cock springs free, flushed red and curved up towards his belly and so fucking gorgeous that my mouth honestly starts to water. He thrusts his hand in front of my face and commands, “Lick.” I drag my tongue from the tips of his fingers, down the length of them, over his palm, and past the end of his hand until I’m sucking on his tattoo. His hand drops out of mouth’s reach, but I barely get a chance to miss it before he’s reaching down and wrapping it around both of us at the same time. I can’t stop myself from fucking forward into his fist, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth to stop myself from coming humiliatingly soon. I can feel everything, every vein and ridge, every bit of soft skin, slick with spit and sweat and precum, and holy fuck, I don’t understand how this is actually happening. I don’t understand why some days, it’s a firm hand pushing at my shoulder with a “boundaries, Garen,” and other days, it’s “can you shut the fuck up and kiss me?” or “what else would you do to me?” or Travis in my bed, hand on my cock, looking up at me like he’d give me anything I asked for. Maybe he really would. I swallow hard and stare down at our dicks, pushing into his fist together, rhythm ridiculously perfect considering how long it’s been since we’ve been together. “Can I fuck you? Please, Travis, can I—” He’s nodding before I can even get the repeat of the request out. “I want—that. You. Do you keep your condoms in the—” “Nightstand, yeah,” I barely manage to force out. My heart is close to beating right out of my chest, because he’s actually reaching towards the drawer, he’s going for the condoms, the lube, he’s actually going to let me do this. He wants me, like I was so worried he’d never want me again. I can’t stand even this bare minimum of distance between us anymore; I brush a hand to his face, lean in to kiss him. I’m barely an inch away when he jerks his head to the side and breathes, “Don’t.” I go instantly still. He doesn’t. His fingers are fumbling to tear open the packaging of the condom he has retrieved from the nightstand drawer, and his eyes are studiously avoiding mine. “Wh—so, I can fuck you, but I can’t kiss you. Did someone forget to tell me that my life has suddenly become Pretty Woman?” I demand. “Can you please, please not make any whore jokes right now?” Travis asks—begs, really. His voice cracks a little on the second ‘please.’ And just like that, I’m done. I go soft at an almost comical speed, because there is nothing sexy about the look on Travis’ face right now. There’s nothing sexy about seeing the boy I’m in love with looking so completely gutted when he’s lying underneath me. That just makes him more miserable; he abandons the semi-mangled condom packet on his chest and reaches for my cock, trying to get me hard again. I catch his wrists and hold him in place until he releases me and stops moving. I say, as firmly as I can, “You’re not a whore.” “I’m cheating on my girlfriend,” he says softly. My first instinct is to deny it, to protect him from his own words, but it’s incredibly hard to do that when my balls are touching his thigh. “Yeah,” I say, shifting off of him to sit next to him instead. “I guess so.” He doesn’t move from where he’s sprawled out on the bed, except to raise a hand so that he can rub at his closed eyes. “I, um… I think I’ve been cheating on her for a while, even if I haven’t really touched you until now. Part of me hoped that it wouldn’t count, if I kept it from being physical, but—I mean, the way I look at you when I hope no one’s watching is so much worse than the way you touch me when you know people will comment on it.” I open my mouth to reply—even though I’ve got no idea what I plan to say—but am cut off by my bedroom door swinging open and Ben entering. He takes about three steps in before he notices our undress. He blinks, eyebrows raised. Travis sighs and reaches down to adjust the sheet so he’s more properly covered, but I don’t bother; it’s not like either of them hasn’t seen my dick before. I ask, “So, what’s for breakfast?” “Inadvisable anal intercourse, apparently,” he says. He looks a lot unhappier about this than he has any reason to. “Also, pancakes.” “Did you get a bunch of stuff to put in ‘em? Like, fruit, or chocolate or whatever?” I ask. He nods. “Everything’s upstairs. Your, um… your dad let me in on his way out, told me to come down. I probably would’ve stayed upstairs, texted you or something, if I’d known you two were busy.” “We weren’t fucking,” I say. “I mean… sure, things seemed like they were progressing in that direction, but we stopped. Nothing happened last night either.” Ben doesn’t reply. Travis just continues to look quietly miserable. I sigh and dig my sweats out from under the blankets so I can pull them on, hauling myself off the bed, stuffing my Blackberry into the pocket, and not bothering to find a shirt before I head for the door. “Come on. I want food.” Ben trails upstairs after me, but Travis remains behind, presumably to get dressed and have a mostly-silent freakout regarding his poor choices. Once we’re in the kitchen, I sit down at the table to watch Ben dig through the bag of groceries he brought along. He measures out some flour, an egg, some milk, a bunch of other shit. “I didn’t sleep with him,” I finally say, just in case he didn’t hear me the first time. “Yeah, he touched me a little, and last night I… might have, you know, dirty-talked him to a completely untouched orgasm.” Ben shoots me a glance that’s all raised eyebrows and mild amusement. I shrug. “I know. My point is, there hasn’t been any actual sex between Travis and I since like, January.” Ben shrugs right back. It’s weird—I usually count on him to be my own little Jiminy Cricket, sitting on my shoulder and berating me for me moral deficiencies. Today, he just seems… tired. I’m frowning and opening my mouth to question him about it when we’re finally joined by Travis, who is bundled into a t-shirt, a hoodie, and the sweatpants that now hang obscenely low on his hips considering he broke the drawstring that was keeping them at a more decent height. The three of us are silent for at least a minute, except the sound of Ben measuring out ingredients and adding them to his bowl of mix, and the excessive amount of noise I make when I get up to retrieve the orange juice from the fridge. “Are you going to yell at me?” Travis finally asks, gnawing on his thumbnail and staring hard at the back of Ben’s head. Ben snorts. “Sorry, am I your parent? No. I’m not going to yell at you. The look you had on your face downstairs makes me think you’re probably going to beat yourself up over this enough as it is, and I’m just… not in the mood to pretend to be the moral authority right now. I’ve had a really fucked morning, and I’m not interested in being in my own head right now, but that doesn’t mean I want to be in your head, either. I kind of just want to eat pancakes, and silently brood over how much life sucks, and use Garen’s shower because I was in too much of a hurry to get out of the apartment to bother doing that at my place. It’s been a shitty day, and it’s still only eleven thirty.” “Makes sense. Jamie can be pretty loud in bed,” I say, making a sympathetic noise at him. Ben goes utterly still for a moment before he turns to look at me. “Excuse me?” I shrug and gesture vaguely at him with the orange juice carton. “Jamie. My best friend? The guy who I’m sure kept you awake until probably five in the morning with his moaning on the other side of your bedroom wall? I shared a dorm room with the guy for three years, I know how loud he can be. I doubt you slept like, at all, which is probably why you’re bitching out like somebody pissed in your Fruity Pebbles.” “He can be quiet, too,” Ben says through gritted teeth. “No, I wasn’t—it was fine. I slept fine. Do you want bacon, too?” “Do I want bacon, what, seriously? Of course I do. What are you, new?” I say. I reach past him to snag a handful of blueberries from the bowl near his hand; my nose brushes the top of his head, and I freeze, because… he doesn’t smell like Ben. He smells like sleep and sex and cologne, except Ben doesn’t wear cologne. And even if he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t wear Ralph Lauren Polo Black. He wouldn’t wear what Jamie wears. Slowly, I slip an arm around his shoulders and kiss the top of his head, really just for an excuse to make sure I’m not hallucinating that smell. I’m not. He shrugs me off him; the movement pulls the collar of his blue henley aside just enough expose a dark red-purple bruise that’s been bitten into the side of his neck. Oh, fuck. Oh, no, no, no. I take another step back and dig my phone out of my pocket, bringing up a new message to Jamie, who has been suspiciously silent, considering he should be bored on a train right now. Usually, he’d be bugging the shit out of me for some entertainment on the ride back to New York. I carefully type out, ben mccutcheon is standing in my kitchen right now, making me pancakes. It only takes a moment for the response to come. And the problem with that is…? You love pancakes. the problem is that he looks like he has looked like he’s about to have a panic attack since he got here & there’s a bite mark on his neck & he smells like your cologne, I reply. what. the. fuck. is. going. on. please tell me you didn’t have a threesome with him & alex last night. or this morning. or ever. I can practically see the eyeroll in the message that arrives a moment later. I didn’t have a threesome with him and Alex last night, or this morning, or ever. But that… it’s too carefully worded. It’s too much of a mimicry of what I’ve just typed, and I don’t understand why he’s not joking around, or telling me I’m disgusting, or laughing at the very idea of it. So I send, not dicking around, jamie. did you guys fuck? yes or no. He doesn’t reply. And now I guess he doesn’t really need to. I crowd up close to Ben’s back and reach around him to place my phone next to his bowl of pancake batter. The conversation remains open so that he can read it, and I brace my palms on the edge of the counter on either side of him. I’m waiting for a snort of amusement, or some pretend retching, or even something verbal, an outright ‘I’d rather cut my dick off than ever have sex with him.’ Instead, what I get is a hitch in his breathing, nearly a full minute of absolute silence, and then a whispered, “Please don’t tell Alex.” “Holy fuck,” I mutter, reeling back and scrubbing my palms over my face. “What’s going on?” Travis asks sharply from the table, and shit, I’d forgotten he was even here. Ben doesn’t say anything, though he starts to whisk the batter a bit more frantically. I force my face into the most neutral expression I can manage before I turn around. “Nothing. Ben’s just—” I snatch up my phone and give it a little wiggle. “He and Jamie got into another one of their stupid arguments this morning. And I’m getting really sick of telling them that it’s not fair to make everybody else pick sides.” I shift my foot back until my heel is touching Ben’s ankle, though Travis’ attention remains on my face. I say, very firmly, “It’s not fair to Alex to have his best friend and his boyfriend at each other’s throats like that.” God, I bet the bite mark on his neck is just aching right now. “James isn’t his boyfriend,” Ben says. “He’s not—they’re not dating.” “They kind of are,” Travis says, “even if they’re not official yet. It still counts.” “Not the way it counts that you’re dating Josslyn. And not as much as you getting your dick out with Garen counts as you cheating on her,” Ben snaps, and they both go suddenly still. I take a long pull from the orange juice carton, then put it back in the fridge, smacking Ben hard on the back of the head as I go. “Don’t be a dick. You said you weren’t going to yell at him. And you said you weren’t going to pretend to be the moral authority, right?” Travis stands, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I’m just… going to go shower. I’ll be back up by the time the pancakes are ready, probably.” I reach for his arm as he passes me, but he shakes me off and continues on. I round on Ben. “Okay, what the fuck?” “It just happened,” he says, dropping the whisk back into the bowl and turning around. I’m a little mollified to see that he at least looks shaken up. “I don’t—it just happened.” “Dude, I get it, believe me. I understand the temptation, because Jamie’s pretty much the sexiest guy I’ve ever seen in my life—” “He’s not that hot,” Ben says. I shoot him a disbelieving look. He crosses his arms stubbornly over his chest, refusing to concede even that point to me. I roll my eyes and continue, “Okay, whatever. I’m trying to say that I get why you’d wanna hook up with him, but—” “I didn’t. I told you, it just happened,” he repeats, and now it’s almost a snarl. I really hope Travis is in the shower by now. “It’s not like I rolled out of bed, wandered down the hall to Al’s room, and was like, ‘hey Goldwyn, let’s fuck.’ It—” “Say ‘it just happened’ one more time, please,” I say. “Because that will totally make more sense than the last dozen times you said it.” He drags a hand through his hair, staring wild-eyed at the floor. “I don’t know how else to explain it. He—I know he’s hot, I’m not blind. But he’s such a dick that I’ve still never been able to find him attractive. And I still don’t, is the thing. I just—he woke up and started insulting me. I was just trying to read a book and eat breakfast, and—” “If you already ate breakfast, why are you making pancakes right now?” I ask, as part of my continued insistence on missing the point of everything. “Because I didn’t get to actually eat any of it, because your best friend started jerking off on my couch, so, sorry, I guess I figured fucking him would be a more interesting start to my day than eating some goddamn cantaloupe.” I pause. “Hang on, you fucked him? Or he fucked you?” Ben glares at me, and I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m just trying to make sure I understand the specifics of the situation. There’s a really big height difference between you two, it’s hard to picture it properly. Like, what position could you guys even—” “I fucked him,” Ben interrupts, crossing his arms over his chest, and okay, good job, McCutcheon. Took him long enough to join the rest of us in the ‘men who top’ club, but what an ace dude to have bottom for him on his first time. I’m maybe missing the point again; he maybe agrees about that, because he adds, “I’m not telling you what positions.” “Positions as in plural?” I say. He punches me in the stomach. I’m doubled over for a minute, but when I straighten up and go right back to giving him the same curious look, he rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and says, face a little flushed, “Oh my god. Missionary on the couch. He rode me on the floor. But we were back in missionary by the end of it. Now, can you stop fucking grinning at me so we can go back to deciding how to deal with the fact that I’m a fucking terrible person who just screwed the guy my best friend is—I mean, I don’t know. Hooking up with, I thought, but you and Travis think it’s more than that.” I shrug. “You’re right about them not really dating. But… look, I felt like shit after I slept with Alex in September. They weren’t together then, either, but I think that’s just because they’re in this weird holding pattern. There’s still something there, and they’re both still supposed to be off-limits to the other dude’s best friend.” Ben looks as miserable as I felt when I found out what I’d accidentally done to Jamie. “I really don’t even know how it happened, G. You know me—I don’t do things like this. I don’t fuck over my friends like this. The Travis thing aside, I—” “Half a year and two rehab stints later, I think I’m finally kind of over the Travis thing,” I admit. “I—not over it, really, but I get it. I broke up with him. And I left. And you guys were, you know, good for each other. I know you weren’t trying to be a dick to me when you started dating him. Just like how I’m sure you weren’t trying to be a dick by—you say you don’t know how it happened, but that doesn’t—” “I told you, he was jerking off on my couch and insulting me. It was weirdly hot, I don’t know,” he says, already seeming defensive. “I was trying to ignore him, but he kept talking about how bad I must be in bed, and when I told him I’m not—and really, I’m not, based on the fact that he—” “—got off like me in a liquor store that’s owned by Columbian drug lords who happen to run their coke business out of the back at a really discounted rate?” I supply. “Basically. But h-he said I wasn’t—he said I must have no idea what I’m doing in bed, said I should prove it, when I said it was untrue. And—I don’t know! The next thing I knew, my fingers were in his ass and he was jerking me off and asking where the condoms were. I was just trying to eat my fucking cantaloupe! And read Proust! Do you realize how boring Proust is? Nobody fucking likes him, of course I’d rather get laid than read him.” I sigh. “Alright. Let’s take this one thing at a time, alright? First of all, I hope you washed your hands before you started making my breakfast.” He rolls his eyes, nods, and turns back to the stove, flicking the burner on and finally starting to make the pancakes. Satisfied with that, I continue, “Second of all… can you just promise me this isn’t some weird… like, you don’t like him, right? This isn’t a liking thing, right?” Ben levels me a look that is so unamused I’m surprised he doesn’t choke on it. “No, Garen. I didn’t call your best friend a cock-hungry bitch, tell him I hate him, and then rawdog him on my living room floor because I’ve got a fucking crush on him.” And, okay. What I mean to say is something along the lines of, that’s awful, it’s totally uncool that you’re risking your friendship with Alex for something as meaningless as hate sex, and you should be using condoms anyway. What comes out, however, is a sneaky smile and the words, “Dude, I bet he fucking loved that, Jamie’s such a filthy little freak in bed.” “Yeah, I figured that out for myself,” Ben says, setting the batter ladle down long enough to yank the hem of his shirt up to his shoulders, and Jesus fuck. There are five jagged scratches that stretch from the top of his spine to the small of his back. “Tell that dick he should cut his nails, by the way.” “Holy shit, dude. These look like they were bleeding,” I say. “They were,” he replies, and he sounds maybe a little bit breathless over it. I yank his shirt back down, spin him around to face me, snap my fingers in front of his eyes. “Woah, okay, stop that. No popping a boner over hatefucking my best friend, especially not when you’re supposed to be cooking me food. That’s—no. Save it for the next time he’s in town, alright?” “No,” Ben says sharply. “I don’t—no. It’s never going to happen again, I swear to you. I swear to God. It was a one-time thing, and it was a mistake, and if you’re right about him and Alex being more than just guys sleeping together, I would never—I won’t. I’m not going to hurt my best friend just for the chance to have meaningless, degrading sex with a guy I’d rather hit with my car than have a conversation with.” His tone leaves no room for argument, so I don’t try to give him one. Instead, I settle back down at the table and distract myself from my own completely messed up sex life by sending another text to Jamie. lack of a denial is the same thing as confirmation, you know. bullied the details out of ben. so how was it? He was the worst lay I’ve ever had in my life. And that’s including that girl in Atlanta who tried to deep-throat me and ended up tossing her cookies all over my lap, is the immediate reply, proving that he’s been sitting there and clutching his phone the entire time. I roll my eyes and send, dude, you’re such a liar. i’ve nailed the kid and i’ve nailed you, i know EXACTLY how horrifically compatible you must be. i bet it was the best you’ve had in weeks. since whenever you and i last fucked. nice scratches, btw, holy fuck. We’re not having this conversation, he replies. it was awesome, wasn’t it? he swears it’s never going to happen again, but i bet you’re both totally lying, i bet you both loved it, i bet it’s gonna happen all the time now. this is so fucked up, dude, what’s wrong with you both? I type merrily away, beaming at Ben when he shoots me a disgruntled look, like he knows what I’m saying and who I’m saying it to. The reply is an emphatic, capslock-y, WE’RE NOT HAVING THIS CONVERSATION, G. Travis finally shuffles back into the kitchen, hair damp and expression still unhappy. I offer him a small smile and a shrug; Ben offers him the first plate of pancakes. He accepts the plate and sits down at the table, staring at them without taking a bite until the rest of the pancakes are done. Even once Ben and I are seated and eating, he just continues to blink down at his food. I nudge his elbow. “You alright, man?” “I think maybe I need to grow up,” he says, finally looking up at me. “I think—yeah. I think I need to grow the hell up.” I shrug; it’s not like I’m the authority on maturity around here. And it’s not like I’m going to say anything that might take him even further away from me, not when it already feels like I’m miles away from getting to have him back, even when we’re sharing a bed. It’s Ben who says, with a shrug of his own and his eyes still fixed on his plate, “I think maybe we all do.”62 days sober

On Monday, November thirteenth, Travis Daniel McCall finally mans the fuck up. And I really wish I’d gotten some sort of warning. It’s halfway through rehearsal, and I’m standing in the middle of the stage, running through a scene with Christine. Midway through my line, I hear the sound of a door banging open, possibly the one that leads from the left wing to the hallway behind the auditorium. I glance over, and Joss is striding towards me, her hands clenched into fists and a fire in her eyes. “You slutty, lying, back-stabbing piece of shit.” “What’d I do now?” I ask warily, even though I’m pretty sure I already know. “My boyfriend,” she says. And then she kicks me dead in the balls. I’m not proud of the noise that comes out of me then. It starts with a slurred stream of swears, drags out into… more swears, actually, but now they’re in French, then possibly… German? I didn’t know I even knew that much German other than “Guten Tag” and “ein Bier, bitte,” but the sounds I’m making are definitely angry and guttural and awful, and there’s for sure a “Schwanzlutscher” in there somewhere, which my unreasonably extensive knowledge of foreign dirty talk leads me to believe is possibly “cocksucker.” Eventually, the sounds taper off into a high-pitched, broken whine that I’m pretty sure is going to attract every dog in a thirty-mile radius. I don’t even care; I toppled over onto the stage at least a minute ago, curled halfway into the fetal position. Somebody must be standing between Joss and I, because she’s sure as hell still feeling aggressive, based on how much she’s yelling. I swallow down on my urge to vomit from the agony that’s radiating from my testicles to the rest of my body, but I don’t dare try to get up yet. Instead, I resign myself to lying here and listening to her scream, “I knew you would try to sleep with him! And I should’ve known he’d finally let you, but I didn’t—oh my god, Christine, get the fuck out of my way.” “I didn’t sleep with him,” I practically whimper, shocked that I can even formulate sound that counts as words. “What the shit, Joss, we didn’t even fuck—” “There’s no amount of ‘you getting naked with my boyfriend this weekend’ that’s acceptable to me!” she snaps. Which is a fair point, I guess. The speaker system clicks on and Riley says from the sound booth, “Ex-boyfriend, if him saying ‘I can’t do this anymore, I want to break up’ was any indication of the, you know, state of the union.” There’s silence; I can picture him shrugging. “Dude forgot to turn his headset off before he talked to you. It was kind of hard not to eavesdrop. And for the record, I’m pretty sure all he said about this past weekend was ‘yeah, something happened with me and Garen, and yeah, I feel guilty about it, but the specifics don’t matter, because I’d still want to break up even if he’d never touched me.’ That’s me quoting, by the way. Not saying that Garen has touched me. He hasn’t.” “Riley, shut up,” Joss snaps. “Well, wait, that’s not true. He punched me in the arm last week because I said—” “Ry, shut up.” This time it’s Annabelle who speaks. He falls obediently silent, flicking off the sound system again with a click. Joss is still glaring at me, and my position on my side feels too exposed. I curl up a little more and roll onto my knees so that there’s no way she can get another kick in. I rest my forehead against the cool, dirty floor of the stage and say, “Your relationship—or former relationship, whatever—isn’t my problem. Stop blaming me for everything that goes wrong in your life. He hates you ‘cause you’re a crazy bitch, not ‘cause I’m good in bed.” I raise my voice a little to add, “And any time you want to come out here and defend my honor, it’d be appreciated, McCall!” The speakers click and Riley says, “Yeah, he’s not coming. I’m pretty sure she hobbled him, too, if the sounds I heard him making over his headset are any indication.” Joss sneers at me. “Guess you’re going to have to wait a while before either of you is feeling up for all the fucking I’m sure you’re planning, now that he and I are broken up.” I may be in the worst pain I’ve felt in ages—seriously, I’d take another concussion and head contusion over this any day—but I still manage to lift my head and smirk at her. “That’s fine. Patience is a virtue, and I’m sure we’ll both be good to go by the time the long weekend comes around next week.” I’m not sure if her rage is fueled more by the idea of me sleeping with her ex, or the leering emphasis I put on long. Either way, she takes another run at me, and is only prevented from making me sterile for life by Miranda latching onto her and dragging her back. “Joss, stop it. Stop. You have every right to be furious at him—at both of them right now, but you’re going to get in trouble. Or seriously hurt him.” “I’m already seriously hurt!” I croak. “Did you miss the part where she kicked me in the balls as hard as she could? Because I didn’t.” “And did you miss the part where you hooked up with her man? Because nobody else did,” Miranda snaps. I scowl at her, but she’s at least sympathetic enough to tow Joss off the stage and out of the auditorium instead of letting her have her way with me. Christine cocks her head to the side and says, “Do you want to end rehearsal early today? You… don’t look like you’re in any condition to act.” “Well, I’m sure as shit not in any condition to drive myself home, either. But no, I’m good to continue. As long as you don’t expect me to stand up, that is,” I say. Apparently no one expects any such movement, because they let me run the rest of the scene from my position curled up on the ground. It’s another fifteen minutes before I hear the wing door open again. I look over in alarm, already curling myself into a tighter ball to prevent another attack, but I don’t need to worry; it’s Travis, walking gingerly and wincing with every step. He takes one look at me on the ground and says, “Guess that answers my question, then.” “You’re such an asshole. God, you couldn’t have just been like ‘you’re a fucking psycho, let’s break up’? You had to be like ‘hey, guess whose dick I touched yesterday, let’s break up’?” I say. He slumps back against the nearest wall and gives me a considering look. “Sorry. Are you going to be okay?” “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Someday. I hope.” I sigh, then ask, “So, can we make out now? Or is it still too soon?” I definitely deserve it when he walks away from me, and I probably deserve the look he gives me when he does it, too.64 days sober

It takes less than forty-eight hours for me to realize that pretty much everyone expects me to swoop in and spirit Travis away for myself, now that he and Joss have broken up. Since the breakup and the unfortunate ball-crushing incident, the drama club lunch group has splintered. This is in large part due to the fact that, when Miranda made room for Travis to sit down on Tuesday, he looked at the space and said, “What, seriously? That’s… no. Thank you, but no.” He’d gone to sit down alone at an empty table, and once I’d realized that that escaping the awkwardness of the lunch table had been presented as an option, I’d scrambled to follow him as quickly as my still-aching nutsack would allow. On Wednesday, we’d been joined by Riley and Annabelle, both of whom said nothing about their deflection, but seemed to take more issue with Joss’ impending psychotic break than with Travis’ cheating and then manning up enough to end their relationship. On Thursday, though, I’m surprised to glance up from my lunch and see Nate standing next to me. “Hey, man. What’s up?” “Hi,” he says dully. “Look, I just wanted to say that, you know, if you don’t want to come on Friday anymore, I’ll understand. If you’ve got other plans or something. It’s okay.” My forehead creases. “What, the dance? I said I’d go with you, dude. Why would I have made other plans?” Nate’s eyes flicker pointedly towards Travis, who is somehow managing to eat his chips, review his English notes, and have a conversation with Annabelle, all at the same time. I feel a little pinch of affection for him—really, an ability to multi-task is probably the dumbest thing to find adorable—but Nate’s eyes are on me now, so I squash whatever impulse I have to reach across the table. Instead, I frown and say, “I don’t have—look, Nate, I still want to go to the dance with you. I think it’ll be fun—” Wow, I must have really great friends, if they’re all willing to ignore what an obvious lie that is, “—and I wouldn’t bail on you like that just ‘cause that idiot across the table finally dumped his girlfriend.” “I’m working anyway,” Travis says absently. “Also, don’t call me an idiot. Also, what? Why are you talking about me?” “Go back to studying, McCall,” I order, and he obeys without further protest. I turn my eyes back to Nate, who continues to look unhappy. This isn’t the sort of thing I should be talking about right here, so I stand, curve a hand over his elbow, and guide him a few yards away so that I can say in an undertone, “Look, I like Travis. Everyone knows that; I haven’t been subtle about it. Like, at all.” “Yes, I’ve noticed,” Nate replies, voice clipped. I raise a hand to silence him. “Still. That doesn’t mean I’m going to hook up with him just because he and Joss broke up a couple of days ago. First of all, I’m pretty sure both of us are still feeling the pain of that nut-kicking. Second of all… it’s just complicated, okay? Travis and I, we’re really, really complicated guys, and we’re even more complicated together. And that doesn’t mean I don’t want him, but right now, it does mean I’m not with him. And, for the record, even if I were with him, I’d still want to go to your dance with you. We’re going to have a good time, alright?” It takes him a few seconds to summon a small smile for me, but he eventually manages a nod. I send him back to his own table with a quick kiss to the forehead that still leaves him blushing. When I sit back down at my table, Travis glances up from his paper again. “You good?” “The best,” I say, shrugging. “You already knew that, though.” He shoots me a fondly irritated look, and my heart clenches in my chest. I steal the rest of his chips and turn to talk to Riley.66 days sober

Whatever Mr. Holliday is expecting to see when he opens his front door the night of the ring dance, the look on his face clearly shows that it wasn’t me, my lip ring, and the leather jacket I’m wearing over my suit. Even though I find myself wondering wildly if Nate’s family owns any shotguns, I force myself to smile and extend my hand for a handshake. “Hello, sir. I’m Garen Anderson, I’m—” “Nate’s date,” he intones, taking my hand in a grip that’s almost painful. “Why do you smell like cigarettes?” “Um,” I say, hoping that will suffice as an answer. He stares back at me, stone-faced. Oh, no. This isn’t going well at all. I clear my throat. “Because I smoke them? It’s—I’m old enough to. It’s not illegal. Just, you know, for the record.” His expression grows impossibly darker. “You look like you’re about twenty-five years old.” “Can I pretend that that’s a compliment?” I ask. “No.” “Um,” I say again. He continues to glower. My face is still twisted into an awkward smile. For fuck’s sake, this is the worst meet-the-parents experience I’ve had since the day I awkwardly admitted to my own father that I was dating my stepbrother. “I’m not, if that helps. I’m not twenty-five.” He keeps glaring. “I turn nineteen in a couple of months.” He crosses his arms. “Why are you still in high school, at your age?” I wince and say, “…I have to repeat my senior year because I got expelled last spring for skipping seven straight weeks of classes?” He closes the door in my face. And, okay, maybe I deserved that. I pull my phone out of my pocket and select Nate’s name from my contacts list. He picks up on the second ring, breathless and excited. “Hi! Are you almost here?” “Uh, more than almost. I’m on your porch?” I’m not sure why it comes out like a question. “Your dad kind of won’t let me in, I guess. Because I’m older than he expected. And because I smoke. And because I got expelled from school last year.” “Why would you tell my dad all of that?” Nate yelps. I can hear slightly muffled voices, like he’s covering the mouthpiece as he speaks to someone else inside the house. “Because he kept asking me questions! Look, it’s fine, I’ll hang out here, or you know, wait at the bottom of the driveway, hide in the woods, barricade myself in my own house, whatever. It’s—” The door swings open, and this time, it’s a kind-faced woman with Nate’s warm brown eyes. I frantically hammer on the ‘end call’ button and stuff my phone back into my pocket, staring at her with an expression that hopefully doesn’t betray my nerves. “Hi. I mean, hello. I’m—” “Garen, right?” she says, shaking my hand. “I’m Nate’s mom. You can call me Elyse. Nate’s so excited about the dance tonight.” Is this the Twilight Zone? Did I hallucinate the furious man who opened the door a minute ago? Still, I manage a smile and the words, “Y-Yeah, I am, too.” “Come on in,” she says, stepping to the side and beckoning me forward. I don’t move. “Uh. Is that okay? I mean, I don’t want to overstep my boundaries, and—” “Oh my god, Garen, get in the house,” I hear Nate snap from the next room over. I stumble over the threshold, unwilling to go against a single word he says as long as his dad might be within earshot. Elyse takes my jacket from me and leads me through to what must be the living room. There’s a group of juniors in formalwear congregated in front of the fireplace; the only one I recognize is Miranda, who is smiling at me—apparently tonight is a night for ignoring the fact that she’s on Team Joss, and I’m on Team It’s Not Fair That I Got Kicked In The Balls And Didn’t Even Get A Chance To Really Bang The Guy—and wearing a pretty purple dress with a full, fluffy skirt that ends just above her knees. And, of course, Nate, who is hovering at the fringe of the group and looking positively dapper in a light gray suit. Mr. Holliday is sitting in an armchair by the window, cleaning a goddamn rifle and staring at me. I stare back at the rifle and say, “Hi, Nate. You look really nice. I know I’m looking at the long-range weapon in your dad’s hands, not at you, but I did look at you when I first walked in. And you look nice.” “Are you actively trying to hurt your case here?” Nate asks. “Mostly I’m trying not to piss myself,” I admit. Mr. Holliday looks satisfied. And really, fuck this. If I was able to put up with living with Evelyn McCall even after taking her kid’s virginity, I can handle this incredibly awkward experience of meeting the parents of a kid I’m taking on exactly one date. I flash my brightest smile and say, “I like your weapon, sir!” “Garen, stop talking,” Nate says, covering his burning face with his hand. “Thank you,” Mr. Holliday says, continuing to glower at me. “It’s a Reming—” “Remington 700 XCR Tactical, yeah,” I say. “Shoots well enough, but I kinda wish it had a detachable box magazine for faster reload. Just for convenience’s sake, you know?” His hand stills on the rifle. “You know guns?” I nod. His eyes narrow. “I’m becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of you taking my son out, you know.” “Because I know guns?” I say. “Because you’re a self-professed delinquent who looks like a chain-smoking psychopath,” he corrects. And, okay, again, that’s fair. He adds, “You hunt?” There’s an expression on his face that clearly demonstrates his belief that I don’t. Or, maybe that I hunt people? Just… hide in a clock tower and pick them off in crowds with a high-powered sniper rifle? I’m really not sure why this is all going so badly. “No,” I say. He waits, then flicks his eyes down to the gun, as if that’ll draw an explanation out of me. It does. “I went to a military academy in New York for a few years. We had to learn about weapons as part of the Military Leadership Education Program. And I was on the marksmanship team in my freshman year. We used Remingtons.” “Mm,” he says. That’s it. Just a hum of acknowledgment that I’ve spoken, but no indication of whether he approves or not. I take a deep breath and finally allow myself to break eye contact to join the still-chattering group by the fireplace. Nate is watching me anxiously, like he expects me to bolt for the door just because his dad is an especially terrifying man. I offer him my most reassuring smile and step closer to him. If I couldn’t still feel his dad’s eyes boring into the side of my head, I’d probably greet him with a kiss on the cheek; it seems like the sort of thing you’re supposed to do before something as gay as a school dance, and I think he’d appreciate it. Instead, I gesture with the clear plastic box holding the boutonniere I got him, then brush the fingertips of my free hand against his elbow. “Hi,” I say. “Sorry for… all of that. You really do look nice.” “Thank you,” he says, flushing pink and looking down at my suit—all black, as I’d warned, but impeccably tailored and yes, my shirt is tucked in and my boots have been polished. “I-Is that Armani?” I nod. His eyes rake over me again, but slower, and with a little bit more… purpose. Hunger. Finally, he takes a deep breath, gives a short nod, and looks back at my face. “Yes. You’ll, um. You’ll do.” Now would be the perfect opportunity to make that comment into a dirty joke, but his father’s still standing there with a gun, so instead, I pop open the box holding on the boutonniere and take it out. Both of our jackets have the required buttonhole on the lapel, which is fortunate, considering Nate balks at the idea of shoving a pin through an Armani suit. Once we’ve finished that process, we have the privilege of rolling our eyes at the rest of the couples, all of whom take at least five minutes to figure out how to properly pin on their own flowers. Finally, Elyse gestures us all into a line for the mind-numbing process of taking pictures with pretty much every camera in the town of Lakewood. I stand behind Nate, as instructed, but Mr. Holliday glowers at me when I reach for his waist, like all the other pairs are doing. I hastily shove my hands deep into my pockets. Nate rolls his eyes, yanks my hands back out, and settles them against his jacket. “Don’t be an idiot,” he orders. “I’m not going to be the only person in the pictures whose date won’t lay a hand on him.” Unable to resist the temptation of being a terrible person, I lean in to whisper against his ear, “I’ll put my hands wherever you want me to, but not in front of your dad.” He stomps hard on the toe of my—recently shined, what the fuck—boot, but is still blushing when the next picture is taken. It feels like we’re standing there for hours, but truthfully, it’s probably only ten minutes. I kind of get the impression we’d be there for longer, but the limo arrives to take us to the school, so the horror of picture-taking is cut short. I manage to make it out onto the front porch before Mr. Holliday barks, “Anderson. Hang back a moment, will you?” “Dad, you’re going to make us late,” Nate says sharply. I wave him towards the limo and say, with a bravery I’m really not feeling, “It’s fine, Nate.” Only because Mr. Holliday has finally abandoned the rifle. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He shoots me a plaintive glance but allows Miranda to shepherd him along. I stuff my hands back into my pockets and turn to face his father. “Yes, sir?” “I don’t know you,” he says bluntly. “Nate’s mentioned you a few times, so I know you’re in the school play he’s directing. I know you’re older. And I know that this is my son’s first… date, I suppose. And I’m guessing it’s not yours.” “No, it’s not,” I agree. Shit, this is his first date? First ever? “But that doesn’t—my intentions are completely honorable. Nate’s my friend, and I like him a lot. I respect him. He’s a great kid—” “Exactly,” Mr. Holliday says. “He’s a kid. I don’t feel too great about him going out with somebody your age.” I shrug. “Well, we’re not going out. He asked me to the dance because he knows I’m gay, and he didn’t know any other guy who’d go with him, and I accepted because we’re friends. I—look, I realize how I… come across, you know? With the—” I gesture towards myself, to my hair, and the piercing, and everything else I know he’s still displeased to see on his doorstep. “I get it. Not exactly a dream date. But I’m not as bad as I seem.” He frowns at me for a very long minute. I clench my hands into fists, so glad he can’t see the movement. Finally, he crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Fine. But any hand you put on him will get cut off with a hacksaw. Understood?” “Um,” I say, for what is probably the nine millionth time. “Yes?” “Wonderful. Get off my porch.” I book it for the limo and practically throw myself into the backseat, slamming the door shut and scrambling over legs and laps until I get to the window between us and the driver. I shove it open and say, “Fifty bucks if you can get us off this block within the next ten seconds.” “My dad is not that bad!” Nate protests over the laughter of his friends. “He just threatened to cut off my hand with a hacksaw!” I say, not at all hysterically. We’re off the block in six seconds; I tip the driver as promised. Nate rolls his eyes and pats my knee in what I’m sure he thinks is a consoling manner. I stare hard at his hand and say, “You get that away from me. Jesus fuck, you want me to lose a leg, too?” Miranda whacks me in the chest and says, “Oh, stop being a baby.” “Hey, can anyone blame me for being apprehensive? This has been a tough week on my body. Christ, my balls still hurt from Monday,” I say. “Maybe you should learn to keep them to yourself,” she says, smiling sweetly at me. “I can keep them to myself just fine. It’s my hands I’ve really got trouble with,” I say, sneaking one onto Nate’s thigh. He shoots me a flustered, alarmed look and slaps my wrist away. Presumably to distract me from making any further advances—not that I would anyway—he introduces each of the other people in his group of friends. I pretend to care, but there are three couples I don’t know at all, plus Miranda’s date, and I just don’t have the desire to learn seven names I won’t need to remember after tonight. Eventually, Nate finishes, “Guys, this is Garen.” “Yeah,” one of the girls says, giggling, “I’m pretty sure we all know who he is.” I flash her a smile and say, “So, my reputation precedes me. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.” “Neither am I,” she admits. I don’t stop smiling, but I don’t respond, either. The rest of the ride to school passes in a blur of chatter that I mostly block out. Once we’ve arrived and all climbed out of the limo, I follow the procession up to the main doors of the school. As the only pair—I refuse to think of us as a couple—that isn’t two juniors, Nate and I have to hang back so that I can be checked off on some clipboard. There’s a supremely awkward moment where I almost accidentally hand over my fake ID instead of the real one, but I catch myself at last minute, though I still get a raised eyebrow because it’s an Ohio license—I really should get that changed over one of these days. After I’ve been checked off, Nate and I make our way down to the gymnasium. There’s a DJ, some streamers, a stupendously creepy strobe light that’s flashing the school colors all over the darkened room. Nobody’s really dancing yet, but I think that’s because this portion of the evening seems to be reserved for wandering around and cooing over each other’s outfits, gushing about how excited they are to get their rings, whining because so-and-so brought what’s-her-name as his date instead of instead of some-other-bitch. I hang back, introducing myself to Nate’s friends when prompted, smiling, putting my hand in the small of his back any time he looks around at me for acknowledgment. He must realize I’m not up to my usual standard of sociability, because after around half an hour, once they’ve started to alphabetically list people to come up and get their rings, he squeezes my upper arm—alright, maybe that’s just copping a quick feel—and asks, “Are you okay?” “I’m great,” I say, grinning at him. I’m not great. I’m uncomfortable and out of place, and for the first time in ages, I feel old. All of the kids around me just seem like that—kids. They’re bright and shiny and excited about something so stupid I can’t even wrap my head around it, and I’m smiling along like I understand it, but I don’t. It’s only on nights like this that the things I’ve done and places I’ve been weigh heavy on my shoulders; I feel too ragged to be here. Usually, my discomfort in social situations makes me feel like I’m cut open, exposed, raw. Tonight, it’s more than that. It feels like scar tissue. My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I pull it out and check my messages. There’s a text from Travis. I wish I wasn’t at work right now so that I could be texting you all night to torment you, like you did to me last year. I smile and text back, not unless we’re going to exchange rings & handjobs again afterward. “They’re getting near my name, so I’m going to head closer to the front,” Nate whispers to me. “Do you want to come along, or wait here?” I shake my head as my phone buzzes against the palm of my hand. “I’ll wait here. It seems like there are a lot of people closer up, and I don’t want to get in the way. Just come back once you’re done, yeah?” He nods and scurries off to get his prize. I check my phone for mine. I liked it, so I put a ring on it. God, what a fucking adorable loser. Suddenly, I pause. The mention of the ring has caused my thumb to twitch instinctively across my palm to rub against the band, which… isn’t there. And which I can’t remember being there for I-don’t-know-how-long. Frowning, I type out, uh, hate to break it to you, dude, but i think i lost that ring? bc it’s definitely not on my hand right now. how did i miss this? You didn’t lose it. I have it. I blink. It’s such a matter of fact response, but I don’t understand why it’s a fact. I very clearly remember taking back the silver ring from him last month, and I very clearly remember tucking it away in my desk drawer. Why don’t I remember the exchange of the other ring, then? I send, did i fling it at your head during a rage-fueled coke binge last spring? No, he replies. The doctors had to cut it off your hand to splint your fingers when you were in the hospital. Your mom gave it to me. My hand spasms against my side. I stare down at it, then raise it to flatten my palm against the edge of the refreshment table. The once-broken fingers are still kind of ugly. I flex them, shake them out, then look at them again. Same. I stuff that hand into my pocket and use the other to type, this is suddenly awkward. but for what it’s worth, they did an ace job, bc my hand’s fine now. totally functioning. fingers are a little crooked, though. “Nathan Holliday,” Principal Hammond announces, and Nate moves forward to accept his class ring. Nobody has clapped for anyone else so far, but when he takes a peek out at the crowd, I shoot him my usual lopsided grin, which he returns enthusiastically. My phone buzzes again; I glance down at the newest message. Wonder if they feel any different now. nope, feeling’s pretty much the same, I reply. Nate finally makes his way back to me, and I stuff my phone in my pocket. He’s beaming at me, and I think I’m supposed to give a shit about this part; I gesture for him to show me the ring, and he thrusts his hand out in my direction. The ring is… there. And shiny, I guess. I’m not really sure what else I’m supposed to think about it, but I grin and say, “Awesome, dude.” “I’m so glad it fits,” he says. My phone vibrates, and it takes all of my self-control not to reach for it right now. “I’d be so pissed if I spent all that money on it and it ended up not fitting, for some reason.” “Nah, it looks like it fits great,” I say, unable to last any longer in my battle to avoid my phone.I meant on me, Travis has responded. There’s a brief pause, then he sends another text. In, rather. “Holy shit,” I say, and yeah, that was definitely out loud. Miranda shoots me a quizzical glance, and I shake my head quickly, saying, “Sorry. That was just—sorry.” I type out a frantic, oh my god stop trying to fucking sext me. i swear i will punch you in the face if i get turned on & nate thinks it’s bc of him. you’re going to get me in trouble. Good. This is exactly what you did to me last year, you deserve it. Nate clears his throat and smiles politely. I look down at my phone, face flushed, and say, “I’m kind of being a dick right now, aren’t I?” “Not at all,” he says, in a tone that heavily implies, yeah, dude, obviously. I send a quick, i’ll talk to you later, he’s feeling neglected, bye, power the phone down, and slip it back into my pocket for good. That earns me a small smile, one that widens when I step closer to touch his forearm and say, “I’m sorry. I’m done being that asshole with the phone, I promise.” He wiggles his arm a little, and for a second, I think he’s trying to shake me off. When I let my hand fall, however, he catches my fingers and smiles in satisfaction. All I can think of is what my fingers could be doing to Travis’ body, if I were with him right now instead of Nate. I feel a slight pinch of guilt for thinking that, but I’ve got a lifetime of letting my selfish impulses overpower my conscience, so that’s not too big of a deal; I suffer in silence. There’s no nice way to shake him off, so I just stand there and let him hold my hand for the rest of the ring ceremony. Once it’s over and the music has started up again, I use that hand to tug him towards the dance floor where I can hopefully shake him off in favor of convincing him to dance with his friends.

It takes a few minutes, but it eventually works. By the time the night is starting to wind down, Nate is dancing mostly with Miranda, but his eyes keep flickering over to me as he sings along to the sickly peppy pop anthem playing over the speakers. I smile at him, and he gives a little shimmy in my general direction, mouthing along, “And I love the way you know who you are, and to me, it’s exciting when you know it’s meant to be.”

I really, really hope he’s not trying to seduce me with a Disney star’s song. Because that’s probably worse than the time I got drunk and slurred Alanis Morissette lyrics at Travis to show my displeasure with him dating someone else. Still, he’s making an effort, and it’s his night, so when the next cheesy slow song comes on, I loop an arm around his waist and pull him in. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to dance to songs like this,” he says suspiciously. I shrug, grab his hands, and plant them on my shoulders. “I don’t. But you do, and it’s your dance, so we’re going to do what you want, no matter how gay I think it is.” He wavers in his opinion regarding that, but a well-timed eyeroll has him sighing and falling easily into the swaying. Christ, I hate dancing like this; it’s mostly just hanging off each other and rocking back and forth. The only person I know who can actually dance properly is Jamie, because his mom forced him into cotillion classes when he was a kid. What Nate and I are doing right now is a lot more “awkward middle-school sway” than “proper Southern cotillion,” but I grit my teeth and force a smile every time Nate looks at me. We make it through half a song before the first bump comes. I’m not prepared for it, and most of my weight happens to be concentrated on one foot at the time, so I stumble a little. Nate steadies me, but I barely notice, because I’m busy shooting a warning glance over my shoulder at the asshole who’s currently dancing innocently with his date, but who I know just steered his shoulder into my side. I tighten my grip on Nate’s suit jacket, probably wrinkling the fabric; still, I’d rather wrinkle his jacket than get arrested for punching out a sixteen-year-old, and right now, those feel like my only two options. Another elbow digs into my side, shoving me towards Nate. This isn’t the same guy as before, but he does have the same shit-eating grin on his face, so I don’t feel even a second of remorse for saying to him, “Watch where you’re going, dickbrain.” “Garen, it’s fine. Just ignore them,” Nate says tightly. I return my eyes to him, but he’s looking at the idiots who keep pushing into us, not at me. I give a jerky enough nod that his eyes flicker towards me. He offers a small smile; I don’t return it. When the third crash comes, I release Nate and turn, saying, “That’s it, I’m fucking—” “No,” Nate says firmly, digging his fingers into my shoulders to keep me in place when I take a step towards the nearest douchebag, the same one who initiated that first hit. “Garen, no, I don’t want you to do anything. If you get into another fight, we’ll definitely get kicked out of the dance, and you’ll probably get kicked out of the school. Again. Drop it.” I snap, “Every time one of those assholes smacks into me, they’re pushing me into you. And I can handle the pushing just fine, but I’ve got—what, a couple inches and maybe forty pounds on you? I’m worried about them making me hurt you, and—” “Don’t be. I’m fine.” “Well, maybe I’m not. I don’t like getting pushed around,” I say through gritted teeth, “and in general, people who shove me once don’t get the chance to do it a second time. And they sure as fuck don’t get the chance to do it a third.” His face goes suddenly ashen, and I realize with a jolt that he understands—possibly better than I ever wanted him to—why I’ve got an issue with people shoving me around. Fuck, I should have never shown him those pictures of me in the hospital. He must feel me tensing up under his hands, because he shakes his head and drags me off the dance floor, towards where Miranda and her date are chatting to some of their friends. “Everything okay?” Miranda asks. Nate nods. “Of course. I’m just kind of bored. Do you guys want to head out soon?” They agree easily enough, so I get the feeling that the dance really is winding down anyway, and not that Nate’s just trying to prevent me from assaulting someone. He doesn’t look too pissed at me, as we make our way out of the school and back to the waiting limo, but he’s not really meeting my eyes, either. He opts instead to make casual conversation with a few of the girls in the group. I sit there in awkward silence, staring out the window as we drive back in the direction of his house. Eventually, being silent becomes too uncomfortable for me, so I turn to him. “Did you have a good night?” I ask, nudging Nate’s elbow with mine. He shrugs and admits, “Honestly? I did, but I wish we’d gotten to finish that dance.” I frown. “I wish you’d let me punch the idiots who were—” “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that violence isn’t always the answer?” he snipes. “I know it isn’t always the answer, but it definitely is sometimes the answer,” I protest. He sighs, rolls his eyes, but still deflates a little. “I know it’s just a dance. I’m being stupid. I just—I don’t know. I wish we’d gotten to finish it.” This is the only school dance I’ve ever been to, and in all likelihood, it’s the only one I ever will go to. I’ll be damned if I let it go to shit just because some douche had a problem with his classmate bringing a dude as a date. I reach over and pluck Miranda’s tiny purse out of her hands, popping it open and digging out her iPhone. She raises her eyebrows at me, but either she doesn’t give a shit who touches her stuff, or she has some idea of what I’m doing. I scroll through her music selection—goddamn, she’s got bad taste. How is this the same girl who auditioned for the school play with a Joan Jett song? I’d expect this from Annabelle, that shameful creature, but Miranda? Fortunately, she’s got what I’m looking for. I thread my way through people’s legs until I reach the window to the driver. I push it open and say, “Hi, sorry to bother you. Do you have an iPod hookup for these speakers?” “Yes, sir,” he says. I make a face. “You don’t have to call me sir. But could you do me a favor—by which I mean, I’ll pay you to do this—and take the next right? There’s a public park about two blocks away, I’d like to stop there.” He says nothing, but gives a short nod when I slip him a couple of bills from my wallet. “What are you doing?” Nate asks me. “You’ll see,” I say simply, plugging the iPhone into the stereo connector. The limo driver follows my instructions to the park and rolls to a stop right next to the basketball court. Perfect. I press play on the music to start up the same song we’d been dancing to in the gym, grab Nate’s hand, and drag him towards the car door. “Come on, get out.”

“What are you doing?” he asks, not following when I hop out.

“You said you wished we’d gotten to finish that dance, so we’re gonna finish the dance. Come on, let’s go,” I say. His eyes practically bug out of his head, and he remains seated, though Miranda and at least one of the other girls are both shoving hard at his back to get him out. “But i-it’s cold out.” “Well, it’s not getting any warmer, and I’m not getting back in the car. Here, you can—” I strip off my leather jacket and beckon him out again. That’s finally enough to draw him out of the vehicle. I make a circle in the air with my finger until he turns around so that I can hold the jacket out for him. He slips his arms into it, and once it’s properly in place, I grab his hand and drag him out into the center of the empty basketball court. The driver obligingly rolls down the windows and cranks the stereo. I shoot him an appreciative smile, then turn my attention back to Nate, who’s looking at me with apprehension. I laugh and wrap an arm around his shoulders, drawing him to me and starting to sway. “For fuck’s sake, Holliday, dance with me.” “Is this really happening?” he says faintly. I feel my forehead creasing. “Is… there a reason it wouldn’t be?” “Things like this don’t happen to people like me,” he says, words soft like he’s admitting something shameful. There’s a beat, and then he adds, even more quietly, “Boys like you don’t happen to people like me.” I have the sneaking suspicion that I’ve fucked up in some way, but he sinks into the dance, slipping his arms around my waist and resting the side of his face against the shoulder of my suit. Apparently not wanting to be outdone by the one guy who’s already confessed to not giving a single solitary fuck about this night, the rest of the guys are scrambling out of the limo, offering up their suit jackets, and leading their girls out onto the court. I roll my eyes; if I’d realized this would turn into a ‘copy the cool older dude’ moment, I might not have bothered. Still, I’m pretty positive that this is the type of grand, sweeping gesture that kids like Nate appreciate. It’s fucking freezing out, and he’s warm in my arms, his breath a hot little puff of air against my neck. I rest my chin on the top of his head, which draws him a little closer to me, close enough to bring our chests flush together so that it feels less like we’re dancing, more like we’re hugging with a bit of awkward foot-shuffling to go with it. Nate is singing along softly to the music, but it takes me a moment to actually process the lyrics. “Please don’t be in love with someone else, please don’t have somebody waiting on you. Please don’t be in love with someone else, please don’t have somebody waiting on you.” And now I feel like an asshole. Because the truth is, whether I’ve got somebody waiting on me or not, I am in love with someone else. I always have been, and I’m pretty sure I always will be. I swallow and tighten the grip I’ve got around his shoulders. He deserves to have a—super obvious, seriously, am I still supposed to be pretending I don’t know about this?—crush on somebody who’s at least capable of returning his affection; failing that, he deserves to have a good dance. The song draws to a close, and he pulls back just enough to look up at me. More specifically, to look at my mouth. God fucking damn it. This is too much of a moment. This is seriously dangerous territory. To break the spell he seems to be under, I throw him my brightest smile and say, “I’m kind of freezing my balls off. Back to the limo?” It works. He laughs, nods, races me to the car, but once we’ve safely settled into the backseat, he reaches over and laces his fingers with mine, staring purposefully out the window in the opposite direction. Shit, this was a very bad idea. A very bad, crush-encouraging, eventual-heart-stomping idea. The moment Miranda and her date have returned to the car, I say to her, “Sorry for stealing your phone. Want it back now?” She nods, and I retract my hand from Nate’s under the guise of sneaking back towards the front of the car to accept the phone from the driver. Once I’ve returned it to Miranda and sunk back into my seat, I stretch an arm out across the back of the seat, behind Nate’s head. It’s the sort of gesture I’m sure he’ll be satisfied with—I’m not touching him, which is good, but I’m also not ignoring him. He remains silent and complacent all the way back to his house. There’s a general shuffling around as everyone gathers up coats, bags, wilted corsages; once we’ve all cleared out of the limo and it has driven away, the collection of couples all says their goodbyes so that the girls can retreat into the house, where they’re apparently having some super-gay sleepover. Considering my date is the one who actually lives here, I think I’m obligated to stay a few moments longer. I settle a palm between his shoulder blades and guide him up onto the porch. We hesitate in front of the door for a moment before I say, “Thanks for inviting me tonight. It wasn’t nearly as unbearable as I expected a school dance would be.” He huffs out a laugh. “Such a high expression of delight, clearly.” He licks his lips, then strips out of my leather jacket, passing it back to me. My instinctive reaction is to tell him to leave it on, because it’s still cold, but I’m not an idiot; jacket-sharing is such a couple thing, and I’ve already accidentally done enough to give him the wrong idea, despite my continued and admitted insistence that I don’t see him that way. I fold the jacket over my arm, and I’ve already started to turn away when he grabs my wrist and says quickly, “Do you want to kiss me?” Son of a fucking bitch. I swallow. “Do you want me to kiss you?” I ask, because that seems like the only reasonable response. “Kind of, maybe,” he admits, which I’m assuming really means, holy shit, yes, get over here. This is a bad idea, for so many reasons, not least of which is the fact that his dad may very well be watching from the windows, lovingly caressing his rifle. And if he’s not, the girls who’ve already gone inside are definitely watching. I jam my hands in my pockets and say carefully, “I could do that, if you wanted me to. But we’d both have to be very clear on the fact that it doesn’t—” “—doesn’t mean anything, I know,” he hurries to assure me. “I know you like someone else. And I know that, you know, kissing isn’t really important to you, I guess. But it’s just—” He hesitates and shoots me a plaintive look. “I’m sixteen, and I’ve never kissed anyone before. And I sort of just want to know what it feels like. And I’ve had a really amazing night. And I think you’d be a good first.” “You could probably find a better first, if you waited,” I say. “But—like I said, I’ll do it, if you want me to. But after, you can’t expect me to be your boyfriend, or get all weird and jealous the next time you see me hit on another dude, or even think this is going to happen again. If I kiss you, it’s just… a nice way to end the night. Okay?” He nods, eyes wide. There’s really no chance of me getting out of this without crushing his feelings and making him think he’s an absolute troll, so I take the one step necessary to close the gap between us and catch his face between my palms, brushing my thumbs over his cheeks until his eyes flutter shut. I fight the impulse to remind him, this doesn’t mean anything at all, and press my lips to his instead. It’s a brief kiss—maybe four seconds, tops—closed-mouthed and chaste. When I pull back, he doesn’t open his eyes, so I duck back in to give him another half-second peck. That earns me a breathless laugh, and when I release him this time, he blinks up at me, flushed and smiling. “So,” I say. “There you go. First kiss: accomplished.” “Thanks,” he says softly. “I had a great time tonight, Garen.” “Yeah, me too,” I say, voice bright and a little too loud, like that will balance out the peacefulness in his expression. It doesn’t, so I settle for trying to make this a guy moment; I knock my shoulder against his and say, “Alright, well, I’m gonna head home. See you Monday, bro.” Bro? What the hell is that about? The only guy I actually call “bro” is Alex, and that’s only because we’re both stoners—well, he is, I was—so it kind of goes with the territory. What the actual fuck is wrong with me? Nate shoots me a look like he’s wondering the same thing, but I grin at him and book it back to my car before he can say anything about it. The second he has retreated into the house, I light up a cigarette and peel out of the driveway, anything to give myself some distance from the creeping suspicion that I’ve kind of fucked up by agreeing to come out tonight at all.